The Course at Camelot.

On either side the fairway lie

deep waters low and sandtraps high,

and if your ball should somehow fly

beyond the rough that claims the sky,

then play another shot;

and up and down the players go,

gazing where the lilies blow,

to glimpse their ball sunk well below;

or else it's in a 'pot'.

Knuckles whiten, fingers quiver,

as you try to grip your driver.

Others' shots ran on forever,

your ball flies into the river,

on the course called Camelot.

Four slim figures search the flowers

as the group behind them glowers;

minutes seem to go like hours,

as they seek their shot.

The lovely lady finds her ball,

and on the fairway lets it fall.

She does not like hard lies at all;

and with her club proceeds to maul

the fairway with her shot.

She chips along with little swings,

And in her heart she gaily sings

thinking of love and other things

but of her golf score, not.

At the green the girls all play

then stop to count each errant stray.

One does not hear the next four say

a curse is on her if she stay

to count up every shot.

She knows not what the curse may be,

and so she writeth steadily,

and little other care hath she,

the lovely Miss Shalott.

The ladies chattered at their ease.

As if the ball had some disease

they poked their clubs around the trees.

They scorned to get down on their knees

to look for a lost shot.

In the party stuck behind

some words were said not too refined,

which would have been thought quite unkind

by gentle Miss Shalott.

Other players, playing slowly

or sitting down, or resting lowly

made harsh remarks by all that's holy

blaming those before them solely

for holding up the lot.

Past the ladies lovely scenes

of empty fairways and bare greens,

where birds unruffled and serene

unseed the new-laid plot.

"Have you seen who plays behind?"

whispered the young Miss Blatterkind.

"I see, I see, I am not blind.

If only somehow I could find,"

simpered young Miss Shalott,

"a way to make him notice me.

My destiny will always be

Entwined with his, if he could see,

the handsome Lancelot!"

"Wave your hand, and smile at him.

He frowns and looks so very grim,

but even he can't be so dim

as not to see the seraphim,

you, Adele Shalott!"

"At last the girls have called us through!

And not a moment overdue.

No longer must we sit and stew!"

responded Lancelot

"He waved to me, my heart will burst!"

sighed Miss Shalott, and interspersed

her groans with sounds which might be thirst

or suffering,or unrehearsed

acting at being hot.

She swanned her way out of the rough.

Her movement out was just enough

to make her amorous target duff

his easy fairway shot.

Lancelot did not surmise

that she would just materialize.

She gasped a little in surprise.

The golf ball bounced between her eyes,

she tumbled as if shot.

He was a really decent bloke,

and never once the thought awoke

that this would cost an extra stroke,

the pallid Lancelot.

The groups converged upon the prone

Adele Shalott, who gave a groan.

Like a statue made of stone

the perpetrator stood alone,

the fearful Lancelot.

"The ball has struck her on the head!

I hope the lady is not dead.

She has a lovely face," he said,

"but what a silly clot!"